


around my heart like a coronary artery

by dogworldchampion



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: (dianetti in chapter 2), F/M, med school au, theyre all nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-10
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-10-17 07:22:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10589190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dogworldchampion/pseuds/dogworldchampion
Summary: Amy Santiago enters NYU Medical School with prep books, a 60-set of colored pens, and a plan. Jake Peralta walks in with gummy bears and orange soda."Screw being a doctor - now I just want to beat Santiago!""You can try, but it’s not gonna happen. I wear real pants to class."





	1. first year

**Author's Note:**

> haven't been able to get this out of my head, so here goes! come shout at me about b99 (or really anything else) @ dogworldchampion on tumblr! comment and i'll literally love you forever

Amy Santiago has always kept her head down and done her job. And her job has always been being the best. In Kindergarten, she sat in the front row on the colorful rug and shushed the girls who whispered at nap time (those girls made her life a living hell in middle school, but that didn’t matter so much). In high school, she fought her teachers tooth and nail for a 100 instead of a 99 on tests, and she spent her Saturday nights studying for the SAT. She arrived to college with MCAT prep books in her backpack and worked nights and weekends to save up money for the further education she knew her parents couldn’t afford. When she received her acceptance letter to the prestigious NYU School of Medicine, she could barely contain her excitement. This was the moment she had been waiting for since she had been given a toy doctor’s kit for her third birthday. 

Amy’s college roommate Kylie frequently described her as “clinically insane”, a bemused smile gracing her (much prettier, in Amy’s opinion) face. Amy wasn’t in a position to dispute that. 

And so, on Monday, August 15, Amy Santiago found herself sitting in a classroom alone, nearly 45 minutes early for her first class on her first day of medical school, a USMLE review book in front of her. It would be another two years before she had to take the exam, but starting early never hurt anyone. 

There was one other boy in the room, sitting in the back, fidgeting and looking confused. He cleared his throat a few times, but Amy refused to look up. If he was in the wrong place, he could determine that on his own. The boy was in a plaid flannel and a zip-up hoody, clearly not ready for class – a stark contrast to Amy’s professional black pants and blouse.  

Fifteen minutes before the class was set to start, others began to trickle in, talking loudly. With a sigh, Amy closed her book and looked up for the first time since entering the room. There was Rosa, her new roommate, surly and glaring at the other students as though they’d already personally offended her. Amy was used to that look – she’d experienced it for the first time when she turned her key in the latch and walked into her new living room, duffel bag in hand. In the week since she moved her belongings into their tiny apartment, she’d grown used to ignoring the death-glare. It helped that she caught Rosa engrossed in  _ Dance Moms  _ while walking to the bathroom at 2 AM on the second night. 

Amy is drawn out of her reverie by one voice that somehow rises over the chatter and fills every corner of the room. 

“Chaaaaaaaaaaaaarles,” it whines. She doesn’t even need to turn around to know that it’s the boy in the flannel. 

“You  _ lied  _ to me! I’ve never been betrayed like this! A knife straight into my heart – nay, into my spine!” 

Already rolling her eyes, she succumbs to her curiosity and turns to stare at the boy. A second, smaller, slightly tubbier boy – his name must be Charles – is pleading with the flannel boy. It’s nearly comical, like a scene out of a Monty Python sketch, except for the real shine in Charles’ eyes. _ Is he crying?  _ Amy wonders.  _ How real _ is  _ this fight?  _

Meanwhile, flannel boy is continuing. “I mean, this is worse than when Major Grant betrayed John McClane in  _ Die Hard 2 _ ! Worse than when Caesar Salad was betrayed on the Ideas of March!”

“Caesar, and Ides,” Amy mutters to herself. She hadn’t realized she’d said it out loud, but from a few desks away, Rosa catches her eyes, and unless Amy’s mistaken, the smallest possible smile is gracing her roommate’s lips. 

Meanwhile, Charles, gasps. “ _ Jake!  _ I’m so sorry! I just switched your phone clock an hour early so you’d get to school on time! It’s just the first day! I didn’t know! Of course I should have known. You need your sleep – you were  _ obviously  _ up late on a lucky  _ Die Hard  _ marathon. How could I  _ do  _ this to you?” Charles is nearly inconsolable now, and he seems to be talking to himself, rather than flannel boy. Amy has never been more confused in her life. 

Flannel boy – Jake, apparently – sighs and draws his friend into a hug. What is clearly intended to last for the duration of a quick squeeze and a clap on the back quickly morphs into a 30 second ordeal. Amy can read the discomfort on Jake’s face as Charles burrows into his chest, and frankly, she relishes it. This is far more entertaining than teaching herself the material on the USMLE, even if she does resent the boy for interrupting her studying. 

At that moment, a tall man opens the door and silently marches to the front of the room. At the sound of his voice, Amy turns around with a start, a blush already creeping up her neck. She’d been caught  _ turned around  _ when her first medical school professor, her future  _ mentor _ , the man who would one day hold her future in his hands like a small bird, had walked in for the first time. What kind of impression was that? 

Seeming not to have noticed the student in the middle seat of the front row nearly fall out of her desk in her haste to turn around and open her notebook simultaneously, Dr. Holt opened his mouth to speak. In the most monotonous, least excited voice Amy Santiago had ever heard, he said, “Welcome to your first day at NYU School of Medicine. I, Raymond J. Holt, M.D., am thrilled to personally welcome you to your first class here.”

 

* * *

 

Amy is so immersed in her textbook that she doesn’t notice her sandwich slowly falling apart until Rosa looks up from her own book, literally reaches across the table, and hits her on the head. With a start, Amy is pulled out of the intricacies of the human circulatory system to notice mayonnaise dripping down her hand while turkey slides out of the sourdough she is clenching. Fortunately, none of the stray sandwich toppings that litter the table had landed on the notes she took this morning. Rosa grunts – if Amy didn’t know better, she’d almost call it a laugh – and hands her a few napkins from the dispenser. 

“Y’know, you don’t have to study this much,” Rosa states matter-of-factly, closing her book. “We aren’t being tested on that stuff for another month.”

“But I’m already a week behind!” 

“Amy, that’s the pulmonary vascular system. We haven’t even covered that in class. Eat your lunch like a normal person.”

“The schedule, Rosa! The schedule!” Amy reminds her, a little desperately. Rosa sees the color-coded schedule hung in their small shared living space every day. It outlines both the material covered in class that Amy reviews each day and the material she covers on her own in anticipation of the content of classes still two years away. Rosa never comments on just how crazy Amy is. In return, Amy doesn’t acknowledge that under the book jacket that reads  _ The Art of War _ is a copy of Jane Austen’s  _ Pride and Prejudice _ . 

Just then, the two boys Amy noticed earlier that morning –  _ Charles and…John, maybe? Jack?  _ she remembers – drop their lunches with a rattle on their table. 

“S-s-sorry,” squeaks Charles, cowering under Rosa’s glare. “We’ll go find somewhere else!”

Flannel-boy –  _ James? _ – is already rolling his eyes. “Sorry about him. Can we sit here? All the other tables are full.”

Amy defers to Rosa, who shrugs in response. The boys sit, and flannel-boy adds, “I’m Jake, by the way, and that’s Charles.” Charles has already opened his Tupperware, and is gleefully inhaling the steam that wafts out. For the life of her, Amy can’t tell what’s in the container – it appears to be some kind of green-brown gravy, containing misshapen lumps that might be meat. Amy catches a whiff and makes a face. 

“Yeah, sorry about that. He’s a  _ foodie. _ ” Jake leans in at the last bit, conspiratorially, inviting Amy and Rosa to share in his incredulity at Charles’ taste in food. Amy looks at Jake’s lunch, though, and sees only some dry Frosted Flakes, in the bag they came in, and an orange soda. 

“I’m Amy, that’s Rosa, and you need more protein.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Ames.” Jake winks, and puts in his headphones.

 

* * *

 

Jake and Charles sit with Amy and Rosa the next day. And the day after that. They don’t talk much – Amy prefers to study, Rosa to read, and Jake to listen to music. Amy caught him mouthing words to a song once, and thanks to the lip-reading class she took in high school, she was able to discern with a fair degree of confidence that he was either singing, “She wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts,” or “Cheese hairs port curds, and my pee hurts.” Her system isn’t perfect. 

Charles, they all prefer to ignore. His moans of delight or disappointment punctuate the end of nearly every sentence Amy reads. He has struggled a great deal with the idea of bringing a lunch to eat in between classes – Amy has gathered that he would vastly prefer access to a full kitchen to make his meal fresh, and that in fact, he scheduled himself a five-hour lunch break every semester in college to allow for just that. But he makes do with elaborate meal preparation plans and a dirty microwave, and they learn to ignore the nearly sexual moans coming from their new tablemate. 

This is the extent of Amy Santiago’s interaction with Jake Peralta (she learns his name from the roster that they were all given as part of their orientation material) until the morning of their fourth day.

“Now, can anyone tell me what this appears to be?” To commence their anatomy lecture, Professor Holt has placed a CT scan on the board.  

Amy nearly falls out of her seat in her efforts to ensure that her hand is in the air first. Holt observes the student in front of him, who has already visited his office twice and is currently wiggling with excitement, and gives a slight nod, allowing her to respond. 

“That is a CT, or Computized Axial Tomography Scan, displaying an inguinal hernia in a male patient. Inguinal hernias are 25 times more likely than men than in women, and—”

Dr. Holt then cuts her off. “Thank you, Miss Santiago. Clearly one of you did the reading last night.”

Amy resists the urge to correct him – she had, in fact, completed this reading two months ago. 

Holt continues: “Now, can anyone in here tell me why inguinal hernias are so much more common in men, as Miss Santiago so kindly pointed out for us?”

Amy is shell-shocked. She attempts to maintain a calm façade, but inside her head, she is rummaging frantically through years of readings in increasing distress. The information isn’t there. Panic is beginning to set in when she sees Holt –  _ Dr.  _ Holt – nod at a hand in the back of the room. 

Amy turns with the rest of the class, and her jaw drops when she sees the owner of the hand that is hovering tentatively above the heads of her classmates. Jake Peralta, suspected Taylor Swift fanatic, wearer of  _ sweatpants _ , knows the answer. 

He clears his throat and says, “Both ovaries and testicles are derived from fetal gonads, which form in the chest cavity, not at the base of the abdominal cavity. Ovaries descend, but stay within the abdominal wall. Testicles descend outside of it, creating weaknesses in the abdominal muscles that can result in a predisposition for hernias later in life.”

Dr. Holt looks truly impressed for the first time since he’s entered the classroom. “Correct, Mr. Peralta. On that note, let’s begin discussing fetal anatomy and development.” 

Dr. Holt changes the slide and begins lecturing, but Amy is still staring at that CT in her mind’s eye. How did she not know that answer? And more importantly, how on earth did  _ Jake Peralta _ get it right?

 

* * *

 

No one has ever beaten Amy before. Actually, that’s a lie. In first grade, stupid Sarah Schneider beat her on a Mad Minute – Amy got 29 subtraction problems right in a minute, and Sarah got all 30. Amy proceeded to cry in the bathroom, go home that night and study flashcards until bedtime, and get all 30 correct on every Mad Minute from that day through the end of fourth grade. Amy didn’t like getting second, and she had vowed never to let it happen again. 

And Jake didn’t even look happy about it! Sure, a little smug grin sat on his face during the rest of the lecture, as Amy could see from her frequent, seething glares towards the back of the room, but there was no celebratory fist pumping or in-your-seat dancing – not even a grin with teeth! Dr. Holt had  _ smiled  _ at him! 

When their lunch break finally comes, Amy is both starving and positively boiling over with repressed rage. She storms up to the table – today, she is the last to arrive – shouting, “PERALTA!”

“Oh, so it’s Peralta now? Geez, Amy, I thought we were friends!” He hadn’t even bothered to swallow his cereal before speaking – did this boy have no manners?

“You embarrassed me in there! I was supposed to know the answer! I  _ always  _ know the answer!” She can hear her voice growing shrill, but she proceeds anyway. “And by the way,  _ Peralta _ , before you talk, you should swallow.” 

A grin leaps onto his face and he nearly shouts with glee, “You should swallow! Title of Santiago’s sex tape!” This gets the attention of their tablemates for the first time. Rosa snickers –  _ out loud _ – and Charles brings his hand up for a high five so quickly that he nearly drops his lunch and slaps Jake in the face simultaneously. Amy wants to be furious – she really does. But somehow, she can’t quite muster the indignation she knows the comment deserved. So she settles for an exaggerated eye roll and let him continue. 

“Anyway, Santiago, we’re all allowed to know the answer, too. And it’s not really like I’m beating you. You’ve answered, like, 20 questions to my one. Don’t worry – you’re still going to run circles around the rest of us plebs on your way to greatness. Or second greatness – because I’m going answer 21 questions tomorrow. Screw being a doctor – now I just want to beat Santiago!”

Amy gives in, puts her food down, slides into her usual chair, right next to Jake Peralta, and turns to face her newest adversary. “You can try, but it’s not gonna happen. I wear  _ real pants  _ to class. Also, ‘second greatness’ isn’t even correct English.”

“Meh, who cares what I call it when I’m the best? And sweatpants are awesome! They mean I’ll be comfortable while I crush you with my mad question-answering skillz – with a z.” He’s no longer trying to hide his smile – his grin reaches from ear to ear. If Amy didn’t know any better, she would have said he was flirting. And if she wasn’t so irritated with his determination to beat her, she would have said he was cute. 

“Don’t worry – tomorrow everything will be back to normal and I’ll be kicking your ass again. This was an isolated event, Peralta.” She pauses and stares at him for a few seconds, using a power glare she learned from a seminar in college to make sure he understands her. “Now, how did you know that thing about gonad descent relating to adult hernias?”

“I’ll tell you, Santiago. But first, you have to tell me: was that a  _ power glare _ ?”

 

* * *

 

From that conversation on, the dynamic at their lunch table changes noticeably. Things are more fun, as though someone had blown a layer of dust off the group, leaving nothing but Technicolor and heated debate. Charles grows more relaxed, then visibly nervous again, around Rosa. Amy suspects that he’s developed a crush, but it’s innocent and a little cute, and she knows that the little doctor-in-training who eats more raw food than can possibly be safe has wormed his way into her surly roommate’s heart. Rosa, meanwhile, has begun to openly tolerate Jake, who is a literal human disaster. 

Jake has ditched the headphones entirely. He’d much rather be speaking to Amy. 

Amy is perpetually angry at Jake for something. She hasn’t had a chance to return to calling him Jake since the day of their argument – he’s always done  _ something  _ to deserve “Peralta”. He earns it for two days for spilling milk on her lap. He loses a day when he brings her coffee, but promptly gains it back when she realizes he bought her a double-chocolate cookie dough caramel Frappuccino, a concoction he designed specially during the year he worked as a barista. It is cloyingly sweet and she can feel the cavities forming as she works to swallow. He just laughs. Three more days for each “title of your sex tape!” joke. Amy may have formed a system, not that she’d ever admit it (she keeps it in the back of her notebook. Jake already has another month of Peralta before she returns to calling him Jake, and they’ve only had this tentative friendship for three days.)

Amy has stopped studying at lunch. She’s a few weeks ahead of the calendar, and as Kylie keeps reminding her when they talk, Amy’s only close friend is currently living across the country in Portland, so she’d better find someone. This misfit group seems better than most.

 

* * *

 

Rosa wishes she knew how this argument started. It has been years, centuries, maybe even millennia since she experienced the peace that enters her life when she can’t hear Jake Peralta’s voice. She is being submerged in a sea of misused metaphors and subtle Taylor Swift quotes. She is drowning in the deluge of obscure statistics and stories that Amy Santiago counters with. 

In reality, the argument began only a few hours ago, at lunch. Jake had started a conversation about superhero mythology and the importance of their origin stories, a conversation that Amy was surprisingly invested in. It began well. They shared mutual knowledge and different perspectives. Rosa drifted away for a few minutes, watching Charles watch the duo banter. A sharp rise in Amy’s voice brought her back to reality. 

“Of course Clark Kent doesn’t wear a cape under his clothes! Have you seen how easily clothes wrinkle, Peralta? There’s no way that he could maintain a semblance of professionalism with a cape bunched under his suit!”

“Are you  _ kidding  _ me? Telephone booths are tiny! How on earth would he go about clipping that on if he can barely get his elbows out?” 

“ _ Clipping  _ a cape on? That thing’s gotta be sewn, probably reinforced! With the velocities Superman gets up to while flying—”

Rosa wonders with a sigh how on earth they got here. She shouldn’t be surprised – nearly every conversation between Jake and Amy ends in a similar fashion. They all start with sane small talk, move into a phase of interesting conversation, and end with an argument that feels far more like flirting to Rosa (not that she ever flirts. It’s beneath her). 

The difference is that this one isn’t ending. It continued on the walk from lunch to their next class, and then between classes (and possibly even during classes – she definitely caught Amy using her phone during one lecture) for the rest of the day. Now, they’re walking out of the building and towards the subway station to head home, and Jake and Amy have picked up as though they were never interrupted. 

They hop on their train, headed back to Amy and Rosa’s apartment. Rosa realizes that she has no idea where Jake and Charles live, and she’s almost certain that they never take the same train out. Jake and Charles hop on, though, as though it were entirely normal for them to follow the girls home.

The argument continues, growing ever more nonsensical, as Rosa pulls out the key to their apartment. Jake and Amy walk in without so much as a glance in their direction, now debating the physics of Tony Starks’ Iron Man suit and the feasibility of actually having it on hand at a black tie event. 

Rosa is starving, so she pulls out the pile of delivery menus that have been slowly accumulating on their kitchen table for the past six weeks. Charles must have had a similar thought because he opens their fridge, stifling a sharp cry when he sees that its only contents are a few beers, a half-drunk bottle of wine, and some string cheese. This distracts Jake – he looks up and sees the menus in Rosa’s hand.

“Great! I was getting hungry!” 

Amy adds, “Great idea, Rosa! Polish?”  

With that, they move to the couch, sitting down and continuing with the assumption that Rosa will take care of the food. She throws the Polish menu down on the table – she keeps meaning to get rid of it – and decides on Chinese. Charles has turned on the TV to the Food Network –  _ how did he find the remote?  _ she wonders – and Jake and Amy are dead to all but the theory of superhero costume design, leaving Rosa to pick a few random items off the menu and order, wondering all the while how the hell she got here. 

The argument finally ends with the arrival of food, but Jake and Charles don’t leave. They pull out their backpacks, as though it was already agreed upon that they would be studying here tonight. Jake grabs a beer, promising he’ll pay her back “sometime”. Books are opened, shoes are removed, and blankets are pulled out. It’s nearly midnight when Jake looks up from his illegible notes on biochemistry and suggests that he and Charles call it a night. 

Rosa would sigh with relief as the door closes behind them, but somehow, she knows that this wasn’t an isolated event. 

 

* * *

 

“You like her! Like, like her, like her!” Charles squeals as soon as the door closes behind them in his and Jake’s apartment. He’s clearly been holding it in for a while

“What?” Jake isn’t even in a position to deny it – he’s too busy trying to follow Charles’ train of thought. “Who do I like? If you’re talking about the woman by the turnstiles at the subway, no I don’t. She always gives me a dirty look, and I don’t know why – I only got stuck once!”

“No! Amy! You like Amy!” Charles replies, exasperated. 

Jake finally catches up. “What? No! Literally not at all! She’s like a sister – way more than that! No, not that I like her way more than a sister, just that she’s even more sisterly than a sister!” 

Charles crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one hip. “Mhmmm,” he replies in a voice so high-pitched Jake almost doesn’t believe it came from him.

“Seriously, Charles. Nothing there. She’s annoying and judgy – no way I’d ever like her.”

“Then what was all that playful banter today? You two talked for  _ hours _ !” 

“That was the fact that she was entirely wrong about the basics of superhero dress codes! That isn’t on me!” 

Charles just sighs and mutters, “Young love…you’ll see soon enough.” as he turns towards the door to his room. 

“I’m not in love with her!” Jake shouts at his back. “At best I tolerate her occasionally charming insane tendencies!” But it’s too late. Charles’ door has shut. 

 

* * *

 

As Rosa predicted, unannounced visits from Jake and Charles didn’t end. In fact, they became near-constant presences in the tiny studio apartment. By November, the boys were near-constant fixtures. Jake blamed the smell that emanated from Charles’ specialty food products in their fridge. Charles said it was a relief to sit on a couch not covered in half-dirty clothes. Amy beamed with pride that the boys appreciated their spotless home. Rosa resisted pointing out that their fridge was spotless because the only time Amy tried to cook they had accidentally set off the fire alarm and evacuated the building (this was great for Rosa – some of the neighbors had been getting too friendly). 

Meanwhile, classes got harder. Very quickly. It was all Amy could do to keep up with her schedule, and while Rosa would never admit it, she had begun to check it subtly on their way out in the mornings to keep on top of the mounds of material that had piled up while she wasn’t looking. Only an idiot wouldn’t think med school was hard, but this was exhausting. 

As the sun set earlier and fall stretched into early winter, their nights got later. Midterms had come and gone, but finals were approaching far faster than any of them cared to think about. 

The night of the first snow was a particularly grim one. It was a Saturday, reminding them all of happier times spent on the quads of their colleges, playing hacky-sack, perfecting an angry glare, or studying (Amy hasn’t changed much). It was a testament to how bone-tired Amy was that she wanted to sleep in in the morning. She had never slept past nine in her life, but for some reason, waking up with half her day gone and noon light slanting through her window sounded heavenly. 

Jake and Charles arrived early that morning, a fact Amy was secretly thankful for. For Rosa’s benefit, she complained vocally and frequently about the constant presence of Jake and Charles whenever they weren’t around. But neither Rosa nor Amy ever kicked them out – for better or worse they were here to stay.

Even Jake, who usually required attention at least four times an hour, had been silent for four hours. Rosa became so frustrated with her inability to remember the names of various nerves in the leg that she grabbed a gym bag and stormed out – Jake quietly commented she was probably going to go beat up a punching bag until it exploded. Amy nodded, not letting on that there was a yoga mat rolled up under Rosa’s bed (what can she say? Under-beds need dusting, too!)

Amy had been sitting cross-legged with a lap desk and her 64-set of colored pens for hours when Jake looked up to ask a question and caught a glimpse of a perfectly drawn diagram of the cranial nerves and the muscles they controlled. 

“What the hell, Santiago? You’re a freaking artist!”

Amy blushed a little, drawing her papers closer to her chest. 

“What, this? It’s nothing. Literally any of you could do the same!” 

Charles chimes in. “No, Amy! That’s art! It’s  _ beautiful! _ ” 

Jake holds up his diagram of the same system for comparison. It’s largely indecipherable, a series of scribbles on a misshapen circle with so many eraser marks the paper is worn in a few places. “See? Yours is different! Where’d you learn to do that?”

Amy shrugs. “I was an art history major in college, with all the premed classes. I took a few studio classes to go with that, and I’ve always been kind of into it.”

Jake’s mouth is agape. “You were an  _ art history  _ major?”

“I mean, yeah. You don’t have to be a bio major to be premed, you kno—” Amy’s voice is speeding up in the way that it does when she’s about to enter a long, educational tangent – if Jake had to guess, this one would be about the benefits of a liberal arts education for a future career in medicine. Jake heads this rant off before she can pick up any steam. 

“No, I know. Just means you’re a nerd, not that it’s new information.” He grins and pokes her in the side. She leans away, laughing. 

“Fine, then what did you major in?” 

“Bio, like a normal person!”  

“Ugh, bio majors are the worst. Always so stuck up, talking about how much smarter they are…They couldn’t write an essay if they tried.” She rolls her eyes dramatically. Jake suspects she’s being entirely serious, but he can’t resist laughing. Her face is remarkably expressive, he’s noticed over the past few months, so that even this small grievance registers as comically cartoonish. 

Jake’s laughter swells, and Amy finds it impossible to maintain her mask of annoyance, and a laugh bubbles out of the pit of her stomach. Jake’s laugh is more contagious than any disease they’ve learned about so far (in the back of her head, she wonders if they’ll ever cover a disease more contagious than this laugh. Somehow, she doubts it). 

Charles has been laughing since a smile first cracked Jake’s face – ever the supportive best friend – and the three of them feed off of one another until tears are streaming down their faces. Charles has fallen to the floor, and Jake is clutching his stomach. Amy can’t remember the last time she laughed this hard, and she’s not even sure what was funny. 

Finally, as they catch their breath, Jake’s eyes open wide enough to see the snow falling thickly outside. It’s only 8, but it’s dark as midnight, and the snow is catching the light so that it almost twinkles. On a whim, Jake says, “Hey, guys,” and as they look at him, he sings, “do you wanna build a snowman?”

Amy’s smile is blinding, and she sounds almost surprised at herself when she replies, “Yes, actually, I’d love to!” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, buddy,” Charles says. “These boots aren’t made for snow.” 

Jake and Amy follow his pointing finger to the door, where a pair of what appear to be snow boots are resting. They share a look of befuddlement before Jake asks, “Aren’t those snow boots?” 

“No!  _ Those  _ are very expensive boots made out of the skin of a rare type of chicken that my father and I ate on our culinary tour of Central Europe! Even small splashes of water could disintegrate the detailed craftsmanship!”

“Alllright.” Jake draws out the word, trying to follow Charles’ concern. Instead, he settles on, “Well, that doesn’t seem very practical. Come on, Santiago, it’s time to birth a snowman!” He reaches out an arm in false gallantry. Amy is too giddy to care – the prospect of closing her books and playing outside have driven any potential eye rolls at her most infuriating study partner from her mind. 

They throw on their parkas, scarves, hats, and boots and sprint out the door, letting it slam behind them. As they run down the stairs, Jake says, “Wow, Charles is a weirdo.” 

Amy laughs. “Yeah, but he’s our weirdo.” 

They walk through the lobby of the building – there are a few neighbors coming in and out, and Amy does her best to look like a respectable adult. When they make it to the small park down the block, though, all semblance of maturity falls away. Jake has already bent down and started rolling the base of their snowman. Amy knows she should do the same for the middle section, but instead, she sees an opportunity. 

The snowball hits Jake in the back of his head with a dull thump. He screeches and straightens instantly, shouting her name and shaking his fist dramatically. She has another one ready, and this move gets him a mouthful of wet powder. 

“What? That was devious!” he sputters when he finally spits it out. 

“Seven brothers, remember?” she replies smugly, and ducks as he throws one back. 

Snowballs fly as they frantically dodge in the most intense snowball fight Amy’s taken part in since the famous Santiago Showdown of ’98. 

Finally, as she struggles to catch her breath through the laughter, she sees her opportunity. Jake is taking advantage of her temporary incapacitation to stockpile snowballs for an onslaught. But his back is turned. 

With a shout, she dives and tackles him into the snow drift behind him. Before he knows what’s happening, they’re on the ground in a tangle of limbs. She is temporarily victorious, but as she relishes her victory, he turns her over and pins her. 

He has both of her hands pinned above her head, and he’s boxing her in – there’s no chance for escape. He won. She looks up into his face. His eyes are shining, his cheeks are rosy, and his hair is a mess. All of a sudden, she remembers the first few days she knew him, when she might have even said he was cute, and her heart starts to flutter. 

She can feel his grip relax on her hands as he looks back. Is he thinking the same thing? All of this must only take a second, two at most, the rational part of her mind tells her, but it feels much longer. It’s that same sane little voice in the back of her head that reminds her why they’re in this position. With a triumphant laugh, she throws him off, into the snow, and bolts for the street. 

“I won!” she shouts at him as he catches up, breathless. 

“How’d…you…do…that?” he pants.

“Self-defense classes in high school. But damn, Peralta, you need to get in shape.” 

“But then I couldn’t have my breakfast burritos anymore!”

“Those are just gummies wrapped in a fruit roll-up.”

“And I wouldn’t give them up for the world.”

They start to walk back to Amy’s apartment – they’re both soaked, and it’s time to get back to studying. As they walk, Jake notices that Amy’s shivering. He reaches out and tentatively puts an arm around her shoulders as they walk back through the still-falling snow towards a warm apartment and the anatomy notes that await their return. 

 


	2. second year

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops y'all i hope you'll forgive me for taking this long to update. this is three times longer than i intended, if it improves things at all. :))) 
> 
> anyway, hope y'all enjoy it!! let me know in the comments or at the-pontiac-bandit on tumblr!

Amy Santiago is standing on her stoop and rummaging in her oversized purse, mentally screaming all the profane words she’s far too put together to say out loud. Her apartment key, carefully stashed for the summer so that she wouldn’t lose it, is surprisingly hard to access while balancing two suitcases and a backpack. Sweat is pouring down her back thanks to the boiling, stale air that surrounds her.

Finally triumphant, Amy pulls the key out of her purse and strikes a brief victory pose, dropping a duffel bag full of clothes in the process. Quickly, she picks it back up, looking around furtively to see if any of her neighbors were around to notice. Fortunately, the hallway is deserted – the scorching heat has made the entire city reluctant to venture outside their homes. She shakes her sweaty, rapidly frizzing hair out of her eyes – _was she really outside for only four blocks?_ – and turns the key in the lock.

She and Rosa had sublet the apartment for the summer – Amy had gone home for the summer to spend time with her family and work at the local hospital. Rosa had gone…well, wherever Rosa goes. For all Amy knew, she might have spent the summer fighting dragons. More likely, she spent it acquiring sharp weapons to add to the collection inside her closet. Their subletters had moved out a week ago, meaning their apartment should be empty. And yet, she hears the theme music for _House Hunters_ coming from their den, which is bathed in blue light from the TV. She’s reaching for her pepper spray and cell phone, slowly backing up towards the still-open door behind her, when whoever is watching TV shouts.

“Come _on_! He wants secret passageways and she wants a fancy backsplash for the kitchen? Just get a divorce already, why don’tcha?”

Amy lets out a deep sigh – equal parts relief that a serial killer isn’t camped out on her couch and frustration that certified lunatic Jake Peralta is.

“Peralta! What on earth are you doing on my couch?!”

“Oh, hey, Ames! I didn’t think you’d be back for another few hours!”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“ _Clearly_ I’m enjoying your superior air conditioning and your cable TV! Also, Charles’ dad is in town and whatever sausage he brought for his son is ruining my life.”

Amy rolls her eyes, still outside of Jake’s line of vision. She should have known this would happen. It always does. She would later learn that Rosa had given him a key for the summer, since he was staying with his mom in Brooklyn, but it wouldn’t have surprised her if he climbed into their third story apartment through the window.

“Alright, then. Could you at least make yourself useful and grab a suitcase?”

He obliges with only a few grumbles about missing the scenery shots of downtown Minneapolis. He does comment on her hair, stringy with sweat and falling out of her ponytail, thanks to the long walk from the train station. “Looks like you just had sex! Oh, wait, it’s Santiago! Never mind!”

 _Well, I’m back_ , she thinks wryly. _And to think I almost missed him._

* * *

The first day of class of Amy Santiago’s second year of medical school is, on its surface, remarkably similar to her first. She’s still sitting in the very center of the front row, wearing black slacks and a professional-looking button-down, and a new 64-pack of colored pens is still perched on the corner of her desk, ready to be used for the first time for Amy’s intricate note-taking system. Her fingers are properly warmed up, ready for lectures of any speed, and she’s even 45 minutes early.

Notably different is the fact that sitting behind her is Rosa, who, with a stoic deep breath, agreed last night to leave the apartment 30 minutes earlier than usual and accompany Amy to class. Next to her is Charles, looking bright-eyed and sipping an artisanal latte he purchased as a first-day-of-school treat (he purchased identical drinks for Amy and Rosa. Amy appreciates the effort, but the drink itself is rapidly growing cold on the floor by her backpack. Rosa, surprisingly, is sipping it frequently, apparently enjoying the coffee that Amy deemed privately to be undrinkable.)

Behind Charles is Jake, sleeping with his feet up on the desk. His sugar-filled frozen coffee is sitting untouched on his desk, shedding droplets of water onto his brand-new notebook, rapidly wrinkling the image of Rey and Finn that adorns the cover (Amy tried to push him towards a more resilient, water-proof one at their group trip to Office Depot two days ago, but her efforts were in vain, and the _Star Wars_ cardboard-covered notebook won out.)

Amy had been more than a little surprised when Jake shuffled in behind Charles, exactly 42 minutes early, his hair still mussed from sleep and his eyes mostly shut against the bright light of the classroom. He’d mumbled something resembling a greeting before falling into his customary desk and falling fast asleep.

The four sit in comfortable silence, Charles savoring his latte and accompanying full breakfast, Amy perusing her notes from last spring in a burst of last minute preparation for a new school year, and Rosa staring blankly at a wall. People slowly trickle in, filling the seats around them, but the room is missing the nervous buzz of conversation and introductions that filled the air a year ago. Instead, people greet each other with already-weary smiles and attitudes that resemble old veterans preparing for another war.

And this year, when Dean Holt walks in to welcome them to their second year, give announcements, and introduce their new professors, he is not greeted with the same awe-saturated silence he enjoyed when greeting them as cowed first years. At first, no one notices he’s entered - everyone except Amy is turned around, catching up with friends and doing their best to pretend school isn’t starting any second.

Then, Holt clears his throat.

Almost immediately, the room falls into nervous silence - even with a year of professional familiarity, the renowned dean of NYU’s medical school commands a healthy degree of fear when he enters a room.

Instead of falling silent, though, Charles squeals, knocking his plate of scrambled eggs onto the floor in the process. The clatter wakes up Jake, who rolls out of his desk in shock, landing front-first in the remainder of Charles’ breakfast. He looks up, bleary-eyed, as Amy, looking more than a little terrified, digs in her backpack for her wet wipes.

“Glad to see you’re well-rested enough to join us, Peralta,” Holt comments dryly as Amy passes back some wipes, never once turning her head from the front of the room.

Charles and Jake frantically begin cleaning up their mess, and Charles’ nervous panting and stifled groans of despair over his precious breakfast elicit a few chuckles from the surrounding students. Those chuckles grow, building on one another, until the room is filled with roars of laughter at the sight of Jake attempting to wipe off his t-shirt, shrugging, and sniffing it to see if the food decorating the front is still edible.

Dr. Holt purses his lips and waits patiently for the room to calm down, arms crossed. The look on his face makes Amy shrink a little in her desk, but she has no idea how hard he’s working to hold back a small chuckle.

Finally, after an eternity that lasts a minute at most, Jake and Charles return to their desks (allowing Rosa to kick Charles _hard_ through the aisle separating their desks. Amy almost winces in sympathy - Rosa’s boots _hurt_ ).

“Sorry, Holt!” Jake calls cheerfully towards the front of the room. “Rough morning! But hey, I was _early_ this year!”

“ _Doctor_ Holt,” their professor corrects. He pauses for a moment, seems to decide that the rest of the statement isn’t worth acknowledging, and begins his introductions. Amy rushes to open her notebook and begin transcribing, sitting up a little straighter in her seat.

Finally, eight minutes later, Holt hands over the reins to their first new professor, Dr. Wuntch. His lips are tight as he shakes her hand and wishes her luck, but Amy doesn’t have much time to dwell on it because Dean Holt pauses by her desk on his way out the door.

“Santiago,” he says with a small nod as every muscle in Amy’s body stiffens.

“Sir, it’s good to see you. I hope you had a truly beautiful summer!” Her voice is far too loud, and she winces a little bit internally at her choice of words, but before she has time to correct herself, he’s continued.

“I look forward to our meeting this afternoon. Be at my office at 3:30.” And then he’s walked out, leaving Amy to do her best to relax her hand, which had clenched firmly around her pen, and start taking notes on common human diseases in his wake.

* * *

Dr. Raymond Holt closes his email application at exactly 3:24 that afternoon, in preparation for the knock that he’s certain will disrupt the silence of his office in the next four minutes (if 3:28 comes and goes with no knock, he should call their emergency room in search of one over-eager med student who’s never been later than two minutes early to anything in her life).

He’s not worried, though, because his secretary informed him twenty minutes ago that a dark-haired girl in a pantsuit was pacing nervously in the hallway outside his office. His mouth twitches at the image, funny only because of its remarkable consistency. Amy Santiago has been constantly nervous for as long as he’s known her, and from what he gathers from their bimonthly meetings, this nervous edge has been a part of her personality since her first day of Kindergarten.

He is still experiencing mild disbelief at the fact that he has _bimonthly meetings_ with Amy Santiago. He doesn’t mentor students. He loves teaching them, believes that the importance of shaping a new generation of medical practitioners cannot be understated, even occasionally enjoys their company. But consistent, regular mentorship has always been an activity that came far too close to blurring the line between personal and professional, and _Amy Santiago,_ specifically, had always been able to find surprising new ways to fudge that line in her quest to become him.

Really, he should blame it all on NYUMSAMS, he decides with a wry smile. The New York University Medical School Association of Minority Students is his greatest pride and joy as a physician. He’d started it as a medical student, as a way for the five minority medical students at NYU to get together and discuss issues with the administration, in the hopes that they’d have more bargaining power as a group. He wasn’t wrong, and he was deeply proud that in the thirty-five years since, the organization had ballooned so that they had to meet in a small auditorium, rather than the back booth of the on-campus coffee shop.

The size of the organization had, to a degree, hampered the ability of individual students to lodge complaints and voice opinions - at least until Amy Santiago arrived at her first NYUMSAMS meeting last September. He recognized her - and her pantsuit and well-organized binder - instantly as the girl who sat front and center of every class, her hand in the air so frequently that it must be losing circulation.

Santiago had wasted no time inserting herself into the meeting. After the president of the organization, a fourth year still uncomfortable with the visibility of his new office, made his prepared statement, Santiago stood up and asked if she could speak. Raymond had nodded, a little curious about the teacher’s pet that had every first year professor raving.

“Dean Holt, fellow minority medical students, I stand before you today, both honored and humbled by this unique opportunity to participate in what is the state’s, nay, the country’s best medical school organization.”

Her speech went on for a full twelve and a half minutes, during which she made constant respectful eye contact with her audience and failed to make a single grammar error. She received moderate, but by no means overwhelming, applause, with Holt clapping gently from his seat.

This lukewarm reception did not dissuade her. Santiago went to every single NYUMSAMS meeting for the next semester, never failing to share her input on every single issue on the agenda. Before long, she had become the de facto leader of the club, much to the dismay of the soft-spoken but passionate president.

By March, Amy had become something of a keynote speaker at every meeting, and the president had complained to Holt on six separate occasions about the fact that Amy had approached him about organizing a fundraising picnic, an auction, and a public awareness campaign.

So with a sigh, Raymond had invited Amy to his office (he pretended he didn’t notice the victory dance she began as soon as he turned to walk away) to discuss moderating her role in the club and allowing the president to do his job.

When she got to his office the next afternoon, however, she started peppering him with questions about his career trajectory, his experience as an African American gay doctor, his love of working with children, and his method for balancing interpersonal connection with patients and procedures as a pediatric cardiothoracic surgeon. Thirty-three minutes into the meeting, he realized that she was asking him about a particularly complicated case of Complete Atrioventricular Canal Defect that he’d operated on in 1997, and he’d never gotten around to telling her that she needed to let Henderson run the meetings.

He scheduled a second meeting with the same intention, only to find himself similarly derailed by her intelligent, specific questions. Finally, at the end of the meeting, he managed to force himself back on topic (a rare struggle for him) and make his request. She nodded carefully, looking chastised and a little upset at his perceived disapproval.

And so, not even fully aware of what he was saying, he offered to meet with her regularly to discuss these issues individually.

She immediately perked up, babbling her acceptance so quickly and vehemently that he’s almost certain that part of it was literally in Spanish. The next day, he overheard her telling her friend Peralta in the hall. Peralta had accused her of annoying her way into a mentorship, with a grin that nearly broke his face. She’d elbowed him, informing him that it was merely her passion for issues affecting minority students and prowess in her studies that had earned her the honor, before relenting and admitting that mild irritation _may_ have been a part of her strategy.

He chuckles at the memory, but then his reverie is interrupted by a knock on the door. As he he calls for her to enter, he glances at the clock blinking in the corner of his blank desktop (patterned desktop backgrounds are for frivolous failures): 3:27, right on time.

Santiago enters and immediately settles into the chair across from his; for all her nervousness, she’s become remarkably at home in his office.

“Dr. Holt, I hope you had an excellent summer. I saw that you operated on a remarkable case of Hypoplastic Left Heart Syndrome that I’d love to hear more about, and of course I’d love your thoughts about the moves in the New York state legislature to reduce healthcare spending, and I’ve begun to organize for the USMLE but I’d love your thoughts on study strategies…” Her monologue is clearly prepared, based on an itinerary she has written in the pocket notebook she’d pulled out when she settled in. Her consistency is truly astonishing.

“Ah yes, an excellent and appropriate list of topics to discuss. Did you have an enjoyable time volunteering in the NICU?”

Amy nods. “It was really interesting - an excellent experience that taught me a lot about pediatrics and early childhood, as well as neonatology. A valuable learning experience is always a fulfilling way to spend a summer, and the opportunity to follow a few patients for the course of several months was particularly enlightening. And of course, I spent a lot of time reviewing information for Step One, as well.”

“Ah, yes, I’m glad to hear that you had a positive experience, and that you’ve begun reviewing. A blase attitude about Step One is an excellent way to slide towards failure as a medical student. It is of the utmost importance to begin early and study consistently.”

“Absolutely.” Santiago sits a little taller in her seat (he didn’t know it was possible for her to straighten her back any more until she did it, leaving him a little impressed and wondering if there was a rod sewn into the back of her suit jacket). “I would never _think_ of leaving scheduling and organization for the spring. Constant review and repetition is really the best method for success. What type of scheduling would you recommend? I’ve started organization here --” she pauses to pull out a large, pristine binder with color-coordinated tabs in shades of blue and lavender cascading down one side, “--but I’d love input from someone with experience with the test.”

Holt pauses, raising his eyebrows at the binder. He knows he should start suggesting options for subject division and time management, but instead, he’s hung up on the absolutely gorgeous leather Wilson-Jones 5”, 3-ring binder, meticulously hand-stitched and perfectly organized - a true work of art sitting on his desk. It absolutely belongs in the museum exhibit on office supplies he and Kevin visited for their anniversary last month.

“Is that a Wilson-Jones D-locking five inch?” he asks, more than a little bit shocked she managed to procure one of the best binders he’d ever encountered, a binder that had been discontinued four years ago and entirely unobtainable since.  

“It is!” Amy’s pride shines through. “I know they don’t sell them in the US anymore, but I found a back channel through Mongolia that gets them directly from Oslo - it’s complicated, and I ordered this one back in February, but it’s by far the best binder for simultaneous schedule and information organization.”

“It absolutely is. Have you considered Harding multi-layer cascading tab dividers to accompany it? I find that they extend correctly and fit remarkably well in the binder rings.”

“What are those?” Santiago looks more than a little shocked that Holt uses an office supply she hasn’t even heard of.

“Oh, they were discontinued eleven years ago, but--” he lowers his voice to a soft whisper, leaning in over his desk to ensure she hears him, “I have a wholesale vendor in Djibouti who still has 50 cartons he’s unloading.”

Santiago hands over her notebook eagerly. “Can you give me the contact information? I’ve been using Monroe tabs in this, but they don’t have quite the right turn speed, and it’s been frustrating. Also, why are we whispering?”

“Wuntch,” is Raymond’s one-word answer, delivered in a vicious whisper as he meticulously writes a name, address, and email for his contact.

“Dr. Wuntch?” Santiago asks, a little confused. Her voice, to Raymond’s alarm, has returned to normal volume.

“Yes, Dr. Wuntch,” he hisses back. “My _nemesis_ . She’s been gunning for my job for _years_ , is still furious that I got dean over her. We can’t give her _any_ leverage - these tabs could very well be my downfall in the wrong hands!”

Santiago nods solemnly. “I will never divulge your secrets, sir.” Her voice is solemn, and Holt’s relieved to note that it’s returned to a barely-audible level.

“Good. She’s a wily snollygoster who convinced the building manager that her office absolutely _had_ to share a wall with mine - for communication purposes, _obviously_.” Holt grimaces. “Was that sarcasm? I attempt to stay current so that I can better relate to my students, but it felt very much like lying. It’s almost worse than acronyms.”

“Acronyms are awful, sir.” Santiago sounds sympathetic. “Entirely useless, and they hardly save any time at all!”

“Still not as bad as that cockalorum Wuntch, trying to bring me down with my love of office supplies, but agreed.” Raymond can hear himself rage-enunciating at the sensation of thinking about acronyms and Wuntch at the same time and decides it’s time to change the subject. “Now, about content management…”

* * *

Using Holt’s scheduling and office supply advice, Amy had meticulously remade the monthly calendar that hung in their kitchen. This time, though, the panel was twice as large, with each calendar day divided into four smaller boxes, labeled Amy, Rosa, Charles, and Jake. Inside each box was a meticulously detailed, personalized study plan to allow Charles to brush up on his histology while Jake worked on improving his understanding of the bones of the hand, all in preparation for the giant beast waiting at the end of the year: the USMLE, Step One.

Amy knew that they would tease her mercilessly for her upgraded calendar, with a color coding system so complicated that she framed a separate code sheet next to it to help those ( _Jake_ ) who refused to memorize her intricate scheme. But she also knew that Rosa actively checked the study calendar over breakfast. Jake and Charles, meanwhile, had a grainy cellphone picture of each page printed out and hung in their kitchen.

By the end of the first month of school, everyone has grown comfortable enough with the color coding system that they’ve begun adding their own social (and occasionally educational) events to the calendar - or in Jake’s case, asking Amy to add them for him to avoid ruining hours of work with chocolate stains or - even worse - illegible handwriting. Charles has added weekly nutritional talks (with a cooking component, of course) to everyone’s Monday evenings, much to Rosa’s chagrin, and Amy keeps adding practice tests for the USMLE at 8 AM on Saturday mornings (it takes every fiber of Jake’s being to avoid crossing these out. He points out on multiple occasions that they have nine months to study, but without fail, he can be found sitting at Amy and Rosa’s kitchen table on Saturday mornings, paper and pencil in front of him).

* * *

It’s early one evening in September when Charles and Rosa are out, as Jake stares at his lymphatic system notes, that he breaks. Well, he shouldn’t call it breaking, really - after all, it’s only the beginning of their second year, and he’s nowhere near _actually_ giving up. But Amy’s calendar gave him a heavy week, and the cold he picked up two weeks ago has been stubbornly camped out in his chest, and if he has to study for one more second he’ll dissolve into a puddle of lymphatic fluid on the floor and Amy would _kill_ him for that because he’s not quite sure what color lymphatic fluid is yet (that’s on page six) but he’s sure it would be a bitch to clean up.

So he pulls out his laptop. Amy, studying notes from Wuntch’s lecture on the couch next to him, turns to look as he pulls out his headphones. Wuntch’s class has been by far their worst so far, and it’s clearly taken a toll on his obsessive friend. He feels bad for disturbing her, but only a little. The girl is insane, and her bloodshot eyes and _five_ French braids tell him that she needs a break as badly as he does (her humming of _Somewhere Over the Rainbow_ stopped when she finished diagramming lymph nodes, but that didn’t really improve things much).

When he decided on a break, he had every intention of letting her continue to study. One look at her frantically tapping foot, though, changes his mind. “Hey, Santiago, can I add something to the schedule tonight?”

“No, Peralta, but I can add it for you.”

“Come _on_ , Ames! I’m a 25 year-old med student! I’m qualified to literally write something down.”

“Jake.” Amy’s giving him a skeptical look, but she’s put down her book and is walking over to the overfull calendar that haunts Jake’s nightmares with her pencil case.

“What? I definitely am!”

“You’re holding an open bottle of blue Gatorade, and you’ve already spilled some on your shirt.”

Jake looks down, and she’s not wrong. A blue stain that vaguely resembles California is now covering the lettering of his _Fearless_ Tour concert t-shirt (he would be more upset, but he has at least two others in a drawer at home).

Amy, meanwhile, has pulled out her maroon pen and is standing by the calendar, ready to write. “What do you need me to add?”

Jake smiles. “Watch _Grey’s Anatomy_ , season 1, episode 1.”

“ _No._ ”

“Come _on,_ Santiago! I’m, like, three whole hours ahead, and you’re set for the rest of the week! And you know I gotsta have my McDreamy!”

“Your what?”

“ _See_ , this is the issue! You’ve started your second year of med school without having seen a _single_ episode of the best medical show of all time!”

“ _Scrubs, ER, House_? Come on, Jake.”

“You haven’t seen Cristina Yang!”

“Peralta, you’ve talked enough about Cristina Yang to last a lifetime - I’m sure I’ve heard plenty. I’m _not_ scheduling this in.”

“Ah, see, but that, my friend, is where you’re wrong. There is _never_ enough _Grey’s Anatomy._ The pain! The drama! The semi-accurate medical diagnoses!” And then, a different selling point hits him. “I’m going to watch it right now,” he tells Amy, “whether or not it’s on the calendar. And we wouldn’t want the calendar to be wrong, would we?”

His smile is openly devious as he watches her chew on her cheek, debating whether to give in and permit the soapiest show on television to be watched - in her house, no less - or to permit her calendar - her prized, Dean Holt-approved possession - to be wrong. Then, slowly, she uncaps the pen and writes in _Watch Pilot of Grey’s Anatomy_ for 6:30 PM.

“We can watch it while we eat dinner. And you should know I _hate_ you for threatening to do something off-calendar.”

“I know, and yet, somehow, I am unfazed.”

And two hours later, at 6:57 PM, Jake and Amy are curled up on the couch with boxes of fried rice. Amy’s hair is back in her signature ponytail (much to Jake’s relief - those braids make her look like something out of a horror movie), and she’s trying to criticize Meredith Grey’s unprofessionalism, laugh at how ridiculous the premise is, and shove food in her mouth all at once. She’s a mess, but she’s smiling that electric smile again, and Jake’s mind is untangling itself and returning to something that feels like normalcy as he watches her watch the show. A few times, she almost catches him staring, but he’s pretty sure he’s in the clear.

The next morning, he pretends not to notice that _Watch Grey’s Anatomy_ has been added to the calendar in Amy’s careful handwriting for every evening this week.

* * *

The wrought iron of the patio chair below her digs into Amy’s legs through her jeans, forcing her to shift in her seat and attempt to adjust her parka for a more comfortable position. They’ve been outside for ten whole minutes, and she’s already beginning to regret this suggestion. Her weather app told her it was only in the mid-forties - cold for mid-October, but still pleasant. It was only when she sat down and felt the wind chill that she began to regret the suggestion that they go sit outside at Sal’s, the dingy-but-homey pizza place they couldn’t seem to quit. Amy’s already begun to shiver, drawing teasing from her companions, and it takes every fiber of her being to resist suggesting they go back inside and order pizza from the warmth of the central heating in their apartment.

The only thing that stops her from quitting is that if they go inside, Jake will talk them into going to Shaw’s, his favorite dive bar, instead. He had insisted on going tonight, as a “bucket o’fun and last hurrah before life ends”, frequently and loudly over Amy’s protests that midterm studying starts tomorrow. She only shut him up when she promised him Sal’s and _Die Hard_ instead.

The conversation bubbles loud around her. Jake and Charles are pestering Rosa from either side about what she did last weekend, when she disappeared for 38 hours without explanation. She had arrived Sunday night, with a new bag that Jake was convinced contained swords. Amy wasn’t in a position to dispute this theory – the bag was long, skinny, and unusually reinforced, and at this point, she wouldn’t put anything past her leather-clad roommate. Plus, Rosa definitely had an axe under the kitchen sink.

Slightly more distant, Amy hears the conversations of the other tables in the courtyard wafting over to them on the still evening air. Children are shouting and playing with toys in one corner, while their parents are chatting. A few tables away, another group of twenty-somethings sits and chats, beers in hand. They’re sleek and stylish, clearly some of the young professionals that flock to Manhattan after college. She can’t resist pointing them out.

“Guys, look over there. 3 o’clock.” She’s lowered her voice slightly, so it won’t carry, but it catches her companion’s attention all the same.

Jake and Rosa turn in the correct direction immediately. Rosa twists her mouth to one side in an exaggerated grimace. “Ew. Look how shiny and happy they are. That’s gross.”

Jake nods and adds, “Yeah. Getting enough sleep and having fun on school nights is _so_ overrated.”

Charles, meanwhile, is turning wildly in every direction _but_ the one Amy referenced. “Who? The kids? Yeah, I remember when I was that young. School nights were so much fun, then. Just toys and soap operas and father-son sauna trips.” He sounds wistful, but the image elicits a shudder from his companions.

“ _Charles_ ,” Jake whines, “you’re ruining my pizza.”

“Yeah, I just threw up in my mouth a little bit,” Rosa adds. “And anyway, we weren’t talking about them.”

Rosa physically grabs Charles’ head and directs it to his right, where one of the disgustingly happy people is downing a pilsner while the others cheer him on. Charles’ eyes dart around for a second before focusing on the overbright, overloud table of their theoretical peers. Then, recognition dawns on his face as he understands their point.

“Ew. Who needs work-life balance and happiness?”

“Charles! You just used sarcasm! Successfully! We’re so proud of you, bud!” Jake is beaming for his friend.

Charles jumps out of his chair, knocking it over behind him onto the stone patio and causing a clatter that brings all conversation in the small courtyard to a standstill. People are frozen, drinks frozen inches from their owners’ mouths, jaws dropped open mid-word. Charles, meanwhile, is hopping and squealing, completely oblivious.

A laugh bubbles out of Amy’s stomach as she watches her weirdest friend do a happy dance around his fallen chair, butt wiggling and tongue hanging out. Jake joins her, his big grin splitting his face in half. This full-on dance routine is far from a new spectacle for the pair, but it never fails to leave them in stitches.

“Chill, man. That was, like, C- sarcasm. At best.” Rosa is leaned back in her chair, doing her best to look unamused by her friend’s shenanigans. Her leather jacket, dark leggings, and black combat boots help the façade, but on a second look, Amy finds it impossible to miss the laughter dancing in her stoic friend’s eyes.

Charles is unfazed. “A C- is still a passing grade, Rosa! C’s get degreeeeeees!”

Jake leans out of his chair and pulls Charles’ chair back upright, almost falling out of his own in the process. “Nothing to see here, folks!” he calls cheerfully to their now-interested observers, some of whom are chuckling quietly. He grabs Charles’ arm as Charles circles back towards him and forces him  into his chair, adding, “Just an overexcited, sleep-deprived med student!”’

“We aren’t even that sleep-deprived yet,” Amy points out reasonably. “I got a full five hours of sleep last night, thank you very much.”

“Five hours? Santiago, that’s literally the definition of sleep deprivation.”

Amy struggles to think of a response, but she can’t. He’s right. “Yes, well, chronic sleep deprivation is basically a fact of life at this point. All things considered, five hours was quite restful! Things are about to get a whole lot worse.”

Rosa chimes in, “Santiago, that was maybe the saddest sentence I’ve heard since…the last time you said something. It’s definitely time to drop out and get a nice, cozy, nine-to-five job. With that much free time, I might actually be able to find less excitable friends.”

“I agree,” Jake mumbles through a mouthful of meat supreme pizza. “Time for a job that lets me return to my true love, BMX.”

“…And BMX stands for?” Rosa asks, with the look of a cat stalking its prey.

Jake chews for an inordinate amount of time, clearly stalling. Finally, trying and failing to look nonchalant, he answers in a quick mutter, “Bike…magnificent…xylophone! Duh, Diaz – of course I know that!” He does his best to divert his friends’ attention from his lie by adding quickly, “Point is, we’re all old enough to be out of school so why the hell do we have school tomorrow, much less midterms in a week?”

Before Amy can respond with a lecture about why school is important and will further their careers while providing them the invaluable opportunity to gain more knowledge and expand their horizons, Charles jumps in. “Because, Jakey, medicine is magical. With just the right ingredients, we get to fix people! Think about it. We’re basically characters from _Harry Potter_ – with a wave of a stethoscope, a poke with a needle, and a specially brewed potion, poof! All better!”

“Aaand we’re back to sincerity. It was so nice while it lasted.” Rosa looks a little disappointed as she settles back into her chair and picks up her pizza again.

“Well, why do you want to be a doctor, Rosa? Sarcasm and disillusionment aren’t options for residencies,” Charles retorts.

Even Rosa looks impressed, quirking an eyebrow in reluctant approval while Jake gives his friend a high five. “Because trauma surgery is as badass as it gets. Dude, I literally get to cut someone open, poke around in their guts for a while, and sew them back up like nothing happened. It’s basically my dream job.”

“Really, Rosa? Medicine can be so much more than that! After all, care doesn’t end when the patient leaves the operating room – social determinants of health are crucial to consider, and changing communities is at least as important as changing a patient’s immediate symptom in a doctor’s office. There are so many children suffering due to a failing health system, and we as future doctors are uniquely—”

Jake’s eyes go soft as he watches his best friend drone on about her plans to save the world. She’s basically a superhero, passionate and empathetic and ready to rescue every kid in New York State. For a brief second, he’s mesmerized by her ponytail, which shakes back and forth as she talks, growing ever more passionate as she gains steam.

Jake shakes himself out of it and heads her off before she can ruin his last piece of pizza. “Yeah, yeah, Santiago, we get it – you’re gonna save the kids and change the system, yada yada.”

She smiles at him, her thousand-watt grin nearly blinding, and elbows him in the side. He nearly drops his pizza but recovers quickly as she retorts, “Yeah, and what are you going to do with the illustrious medical degree we’re sacrificing our twenties for?”

“I’m gonna do what you do, only better. Being a doctor is basically being a disease cop, and if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s being a real-life John McClane. Germs, you’re under arrest!” Jake points his remaining bite of pizza at his companions, his face contorted into the most ridiculous grimace they’ve ever seen.

As Jake finishes his last bite of pizza, Amy pushes back her chair. “Speaking of John McClane, you were promised _Die Hard_ , and there’s ice cream in our fridge. It’s way too cold to keep sitting out here, and anyway – it’s a school night!”

* * *

Amy Santiago has loved school with every fiber of her being for longer than she can remember. And yet, Dr. Wuntch’s class makes her want to quit the whole thing and get a desk job. Three times a week, she sits in the front row, a polite smile plastered hard onto her face as she continues to take immaculate notes (her pen may press into the paper much harder than necessary, and Rosa _may_ comment on the fact that there are literally holes pressed into the paper in a few places, but she’s _fine_ and this class is _fine_ ).

The texts from Jake start one day in October. At first, Amy ignores them - this class is hard enough without being distracted by the cell phone buzzing in her pocket. She starts keeping it in her backpack, vibrate off, and takes notes even more fervently. Then, at lunch, she opens her phone to texts that make her laugh (once, a joke about “Wuntch meat” makes Amy laugh so hard that the water she was trying to drink sprays out her nose. Jake pretends to be disgusted, but he can’t quite manage to hide his satisfied smile).

Slowly, Amy’s phone migrates back to her pocket, where she can check it a few times during lecture, when Wuntch’s not-so-subtle jabs at her mentor and general awfulness make her want to punch a wall. When Jake sees Amy start to subtly look down at her pocket in class, the texts increase in frequency, much to Amy’s (pretend) chagrin.

And one day in November, when Dr. Wuntch has paused class yet again to rant about an unspecified Derek Jeter Incident, Amy finally gives up. Spit landed on her nose when Dr. Wuntch, standing only a foot in front of Amy as she paced the front of the room, emphasized the phrase, “So, of course, silly me, I _promised_ that the _perfect_ solution was to stay put,” and she can’t wipe it off without appearing disrespectful.

Then, her phone buzzes.

A second’s pause. Then another. And then she folds one leg carefully over the other under her desk and slides her phone into her lap, out of Wuntch’s line of vision.

 

 **From: king of the universe** ****  
**To: doctor terrible doctor** **  
** **Time: 9:32 AM**

did she just spit on u omg

 **From: Amy Santiago** ****  
**To: Jake “Pineapples” Peralta** **  
** **Time: 9:34 AM**

Yes. She did. I’m dying.

 **From: king of the universe** ****  
**To: doctor terrible doctor** **  
** **Time: 9:34 AM**

wipe it off man that spit might be acidic u could die

 

Amy bites the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing. Wuntch has resumed her lecture, so the hand holding her pen above her desk starts writing again. Part of her is stunned by the futility of the exercise - everything Wuntch is saying is something she learned out of the book last month, but the part of her that got grades over 100 in every class sophomore year of high school wins out, and she starts transcribing the lecture.

She has to admit Jake has a point, though - there is a non-zero chance that Wuntch’s spit is literally poisonous. After all, she _is_ a snake.

Five minutes later, Wuntch is off-track again, speaking about the time that a _certain_ “unnamed” colleague shut a glass door so that she ran headlong into it in front of Will Shortz, leaving Amy free to subtly glance down at her phone, still unlocked in her right hand in her lap.

 

 **From: Amy Santiago** ****  
**To: Jake “Pineapples” Peralta  
** **Time: 9:40 AM**

I can’t. She might notice.

 **From: king of the universe** ****  
**To: doctor terrible doctor** **  
** **Time: 9:40 AM**

want me to wipe it off 4 u

 **From: Amy Santiago** ****  
**To: Jake “Pineapples” Peralta** **  
** **Time: 9:42 AM**

That would be even more obvious, somehow. In a minute I’ll pretend to blow my nose.

 **From: king of the universe:** ****  
**To: doctor terrible doctor** **  
** **Time: 9:42 AM**

u could have lost ur nose by then

let me save u from a noseless future omg

how would u smell charles cooking if u didnt have a nose

dont leave me alone w the smell then itll be stronger and my nose will fall off 2

 **From: Amy Santiago** ****  
**To: Jake “Pineapples” Peralta** **  
** **Time: 9:43 AM**

You can’t even reach me - you’re 3 rows back.

 **From: king of the universe** ****  
**To: doctor terrible doctor** **  
** **Time: 9:43 AM**

what if i told u

my arms are elastic

bc im a fuckin superhero

 

At this, Amy almost forgets where she is and laughs out loud. She disguises it as a not-so-subtle subtle cough (fortunately, this also gives her cover to wipe the mostly-dried spit onto her sleeve). Wuntch stiffens and stares at her, suspicious, so Amy slips her phone under her thigh as Wuntch walks the rows of desks, looking for someone to target. Finally, though, she gives up, finding only a suspiciously subdued class, and returns to her lecture.

Amy’s actually shaking a little bit at the close call, and her phone stays locked under her as she takes notes with a passion she’s rarely displayed in Wuntch’s class. That is, until her phone buzzes three more times in five minutes.

 

 **From: king of the universe** ****  
**To: doctor terrible doctor** **  
** **Time: 9:50 AM**

amy

turn around

ill show u my elastic noodle arms its rlly impressive i promise

 **From: Amy Santiago** ****  
**To: Jake “Pineapples” Peralta** **  
** **Time: 9:55 AM**

I will not be turning around.

She has it out for me, and your only superpower is leaving dirty dishes in my kitchen.

 **From: king of the universe  
** **To: doctor terrible doctor** **  
** **Time: 9:56 AM**

........

shit did i forget to wash those

 **From: Amy Santiago** ****  
**To: Jake “Pineapples” Peralta** **  
** **Time: 10:01 AM**

Don’t pretend. You know you did.

 

Amy manages to make it through the rest of class without incident, a little proud at how subtly she managed to text. Or, at least, she thought it was subtle until she sat down at their lunch table.

“Dude, had fun with your phone today?” Rosa looks smug. “Isn’t that _against the rules_ , Amy?”

Amy rolls her eyes. “Wuntch is awful, Rosa. Don’t pretend you haven’t been reading a book behind your binder all month.”

“Sure, but this is _new_ . Rebellious Santiago - it’s entertaining. And _shockingly_ easy to spot - was that a _laugh_ I heard today?”

“I still took notes on everything substantial.”

“I’m sure you did. I’ll need them later.”

Amy sits down with a sigh. “You can copy them tonight.”

And then, before she can even unzip her insulated lunch box, Charles has sprinted up to the table, balancing a steaming bowl of stew in both hands, hardly seeming to notice that droplets of a weirdly blue broth are spilling out of both sides and staining his shirt.

“AMY!” he shouts far too loudly as he slides into his customary seat next to Rosa. “Were you texting _Jake_?” Heads turn at nearby tables, but conversations quickly resume around them when everyone sees it’s just Charles. His shouts disrupt the cafeteria with such frequency that everyone knows to ignore it.

Amy gives him her best librarian _shhh_ , and he looks appropriately cowed, returning his voice to a normal conversational volume before continuing.

“Well, were you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my goodness, a blossoming relationship! I might faint right here!”

He does look a little too pale at the thought, and Amy considers slapping him back to reality before replying, “Charles. I text Jake pretty regularly. _You_ text Jake every 30 seconds. Would you describe that as a ‘blossoming relationship’?”

Charles’ mouth opens and closes for a few times as he tries to think of an appropriate response. Finally, he squeals, “True love wins out, Amy!”

At that moment, Jake walks up, tossing his customary bag of Frosted Flakes onto the table unceremoniously. “Who’s in love?”

Rosa replies without batting an eye. “You and Charles.”

“Sounds about right.”

* * *

Amy and Jake are forced to put their _Grey’s Anatomy_ binge on hold for exams and Christmas break. Amy cuts off everyone’s TV and alcohol privileges 10 days before their first final, reminding everyone that knowing what happens next on their favorite show won't matter so much when they've failed out of medical school.

Jake calls her a miserable killjoy, and to her surprise, the comment hurts for a second, until she sees the grin on his face, telling her that he's more than a little grateful for how much she cares about his grades.

They have time for one more episode before Amy flies out for Christmas break. Jake, seeing what episode is next in line, tries to dissuade her, Charles backing him up sleepily from the armchair where he’s still trying to recover from their exam week.

“Amy, once you watch this episode, you're going to _have_ to watch the next three, and you have to leave for the airport in an hour.”

“Jake, you're seriously underestimating my self-control.”

“Alright! Just know that you were warned! And the pact to only watch together applies at all levels of show-induced emotional distress!”

“Won't be a problem.”

He shrugs and hits play, muttering warnings about crashed ferryboats and drownings and weird parallel universes full of dead people. Amy elbows him to make him shut up and let her watch. Rosa wanders her way in at the sound of the theme song - she claims to hate the show, but she frequently can be found doing work in the vicinity when it’s on the TV, and when Meredith had to pull a live bomb out of a man’s abdomen, she was yelling at the TV just as loudly as Amy.

And so all four friends find themselves squeezed into every available seat in the small living room to watch what turns out to be a shockingly emotional episode - even by Amy’s standards

Jake and Amy are pressed up against each other on the couch to make room for Charles, curled up in the fetal position on the other half. He had made it through the first 10 minutes of the episode before finally crashing with a loud snore. Now, his periodic sighs are the only sounds permeating the room. He keeps stretching, forcing Amy to scoot closer to Jake to avoid getting kicked, but neither of them seem to mind.

At minute twenty-three, Rosa shifts a few times, and then gets up to leave. Amy’s far too distracted to pay close attention to her quiet but pointed whispers as she walks out, but she catches something about drinks at Shaw’s and a melodramatic TV show and crashing a date.

The last comment catches Amy’s ear and she flushes bright red, suddenly acutely aware of her knee pressed against Jake’s. For a second, her heart quickens in a mixture of panic and something unidentifiable because she thinks she sees Jake’s eyes flick towards her, thinks his face might twitch.

But then it’s slack again, all his focus on the blue light emitting from the TV, and she's sure it must have just been a trick of the light. So she forces herself to relax, although she finds it hard to take her eyes off Jake’s face and look at the TV.

The episode ends, and the screen fades to black. And for a second, they sit still, neither willing to break the moment, to scootch apart and get Amy’s bags and call an Uber. His side is warm and comfortable against hers, and at some point, his arm snaked up around the top of the couch (and her shoulders) to make room. It’s nice, and the room is dark and quiet except for the sounds of the cars passing outside their window. He’s as still as she is, unsure of what comes next. Part of her wants to lean closer, rest her head on his shoulder, and if she’d had a few more seconds, she might have done it.

Charles is the one who inadvertently calls them back to reality, emitting a snore that sounds more like a motor starting than a sound from a living person. He stretches long in his sleep, so that his foot lands on Amy’s lap. She jumps up with a sound somewhere between a laugh and a squeal, and sound returns to the room, the spell of the moment broken.

Amy babbles about the episode all the way until she's closing the door behind her - Meredith can’t be _drowning_ and why won’t that stupid girl _talk_ she’s the only one who knows Meredith’s under water and where on _earth_ is Derek - and all Jake can do is laugh. She tries to convince him to watch another episode, but he just points dramatically at the calendar, which has a clearly marked departure time.

She acquiesces and leaves on time, happy at least to make her flight. But that break, as she watches movies with her brothers and helps her mother wrap gifts for Christmas, there's a small part of her that wants to be watching the next episode - obviously _just_ to make sure Meredith survives (some other part of her points out that there are ten more seasons, so of course Meredith Grey is still alive, and there might be a different reason she’s so eager to start watching again).

* * *

One night in January, at 3:49 in the morning, Amy Santiago wakes up with a pressing need to go to the bathroom. She’d only gone to bed three hours before, and she has to be up in another two, but rolling over and trying to ignore it leads her nowhere, so at 4:02, she gives in and reaches for her glasses while her feet fumble for the slippers she’s _sure_ she left on the floor before bed.

She lets her eyes close as she pads silently down the hall. Sleep clouds her brain, and she knows this hallway by heart - or she thinks she does, until she runs into something warm and solid and about human-sized and falls straight backwards, landing on her ass with a loud thump and a quickly stifled shout.

Her eyes open, slowly, to find an unfamiliar woman standing in front of their open bathroom door. Her outline is blurry - Amy’s glasses were knocked askew - but when she fixes them, she sees a woman about her age, clearly half-asleep but somehow with flawless makeup.

“Who--who are you?” she croaks. She’s not scared - Rosa’s been known to bring home people for the night before, but Amy’s never seen them - just heard doors slamming and soft voices through their shared wall and once (Amy’s tried her best to forget the memory) a moan louder than she’d care to think about. More than anything, she’s mildly interested in this new face, framed by auburn hair that’s messy from....Amy quickly decides she’d rather not think about it and calls it bedhead.

“God Herself,” the woman replies, and even in Amy’s drowsy state, she has enough presence of mind to roll her eyes. Dramatically.

The other woman relents. “Fine. Gina Linetti. Human form of the 100 emoji. Rosa’s…” The woman - Gina - starts to look for the right word, but Amy just nods in understanding, so she continues. “You’re her roommate. Amy, right?”

Amy nods, her mind beginning to clear just enough to know that if she were fully awake she would be much more confused by this woman, who is currently wearing nothing but an extra-large t-shirt featuring an angry unicorn eating a squirrel.  

Gina, clearly almost as drowsy as Amy, just mutters, “You’d be better as a Vanessa,” turns, and walks back into Rosa’s room, shutting the door a little louder than necessary behind her.

Only with the sound of the door slamming does Amy realize that she’s still sitting on the ground. With a sigh, she pulls herself up, hoping she remembers this bizarre encounter in the morning - Jake and Charles _have_ to hear about it. Then, the legs of her plaid pajama pants dragging on the linoleum, she makes her way to the apartment’s sole bathroom, already a little convinced she must have been dreaming.

Two hours later, when she drags herself out of bed and shuffles to the kitchen to face the morning and chug a coffee, though, she discovers she’ll have no problem proving Gina’s existence. The woman, now with meticulously styled hair and a pair of pants (for which Amy is eternally grateful), is sitting at their kitchen table and drinking coffee from Amy’s favorite mug.

“Hey, boo.” Gina greets Amy without so much as batting an eye, and Amy has never been more confused in her life (including the time Charles tried to explain why substituting baking soda for salt was a bad decision).

All she can find to say is, “That’s my mug.” She winces as she hears the words leave her mouth, and decides she’ll place the blame on the caffeine headache that has set in in the ten minutes since her alarm began to screech and the fact that the rising sun is just beginning to peek through their kitchen window.

“Sorry, Vanessa,” Gina tells her, blatantly unrepentant.

“It’s Amy.”

“Yes, but _should_ it be?”

And with that, Amy sits down to mainline some caffeine - at least Gina made a full pot. She takes a sip, almost choking in surprise when she tastes it. It’s far better coffee than her old bargain-brand machine has _ever_ produced.

“Good, isn’t it? I tried your coffee and it tasted like straight cement, so I went downstairs and bought some to fill the pot up with. Gina Linetti is no pleb, Vanessa.”

Amy sighs and comes to terms with the strange presence in her kitchen that accompanies her upgraded coffee. As she sips, noticing that it goes down without making her want to gag or burning her throat, she decides she could get used to this.

When they leave for school, Gina leaves for...well, wherever Gina goes during the day. Amy’s shocked to see Gina sneak a small peck on Rosa’s cheek before walking their separate paths out the building. She’s fumbling for her phone, trying to open the camera - _Rosa just engaged in a real-life public display of affection!_ \- but the moment’s over, and Rosa’s turning around in time to see Amy drop her phone on the concrete steps of their building, and the laughter in her eyes turns into a genuine, audible chuckle as they walk to the subway.

Amy’s sure that morning would be the last she sees of Gina Linetti - Rosa is not one for relationships or attachment. In fact, Amy’s pretty sure that Rosa only decided she liked Amy last month, when she awkwardly patted Amy on the back in passing when she saw Amy reach for her hair to start twisting it into an elaborate updo while frantically studying to catch up with the schedule. Rosa would _never_ bring home the same person twice, much less enter into a _relationship_ with anyone.

Instead, though, Gina is in their apartment the next morning. And the one after. Not a single one of Rosa’s previous hook-ups has stayed for breakfast. And yet, Gina Linetti seems to have moved into their apartment without asking anyone. Three days later, Amy finds her wolf blanket on the couch, and within the week, a third toothbrush is somehow sitting on their bathroom counter.

Amy tries to ask Rosa about it once.

“So, Gina stays for breakfast now. She’s around a lot.”

Rosa nods. “Yeah. Figured you knew, so no point in sneaking her out anymore. Plus she buys coffee, so can’t complain.”

“Yeah, of course not! Out of curiosity, how long has this been going on?”

Rosa grunts, “‘Bout a year. She’s pretty cool.” And then she walks out the door, backpack slung over her shoulder, leaving a shocked Amy, jaw dropped at what was nothing short of a declaration of eternal devotion, in her wake.

Then, when Amy hasn’t moved for a good 45 seconds, Rosa sticks her head back in the door. “You coming? We’re gonna be late.”

Amy pulls her mouth shut, lurches forward towards the door, still dumbstruck. “You just said Gina was ‘pretty cool’.”

“Yeah, so?”

If Amy didn’t know better, she’d say there was a small blush creeping up Rosa’s neck and onto her cheeks.

“Yeah, so when are the wedding announcements coming out? You just called her _pretty cool_ \- last week, you told me that Kate McKinnon was only _alright_!”

In response, Rosa punches Amy in the arm affectionately. It hurts, and Amy’s sure a bruise is already forming under the sleeve of her (very professional) crew-neck sweater, but she can’t bring herself to care because Rosa looks happier maybe than Amy’s ever seen her and there’s a spring in her step and (Amy notices with a small smile) her usual black t-shirt has a subtle pattern that’s vaguely reminiscent of the one on the dress Gina wore out of the house yesterday.

* * *

Given the frequency with which Gina Linetti is now in their apartment, it’s only a matter of time before Jake Peralta finds out about it. The first clue is the wolf blanket. It appears in a new location around the apartment every morning before Amy finds it and puts it back in Rosa’s room, folded neatly on her dresser, until one day when she doesn’t find it until the evening, when it’s wrapped around Jake while he studies. The next clue is the dozens of scented candles that have somehow migrated into their apartment, but Jake doesn’t complain about those (Charles does - he claims they upset his sensitive palate - but Jake drowns him out by proclaiming the lavender scent wafting through the apartment to be _wonderful_ ).

It takes Jake and Charles 27 days to discover that anything substantial has changed in Rosa and Amy’s apartment, however. For all his talk of being the literal incarnation of John McClane, for all his bragging about how he would be the best detective the NYPD has ever seen if he decided to go to the Academy, Jake can be _shockingly_ unobservant when it comes to relationships. Not that Amy can really say anything - Gina’s been spending nights in her apartment for a year and she just found out last month (Rosa accused her of spending too much time making heart-eyes at Jake when she commented on this. Amy’s doing her best to forget the conversation happened).

One day, though, Amy is awakened by a loud, repetitive banging on her door. It’s entirely without rhythm, and the intensity conveys urgency throughout their studio apartment in a way that makes Amy jump out of bed, glasses askew, and sprint for the door. She almost trips on her pajama pants as she rounds the corner from the hallway to the kitchen (she makes a mental note to hem them later), and she skids to a stop close to the door, sticking out her arms as she slides the last few feet.

Rosa beat her there, and Gina is quick on Amy’s heels, wearing the same angry unicorn shirt she wore the morning she and Amy collided in the hallway. Rosa throws open the door, drawing a literal sword with her other hand as she does so. Amy’s too drowsy to figure out where it came from, but she’s pretty sure it was hidden in her sweatshirt, somehow.

The door swings open, and Jake Peralta almost punches Rosa Diaz in the face.

His fist stops a few inches from her nose, and then withdraws under the power of Rosa’s glare. For a second, he looks cowed as their terrifying friend shoots daggers with him at her eyes.

“What is it, Peralta,” Amy asks, stifling a yawn and pulling out her best Rosa-style glare. She knows it doesn’t work, and for a second, she’s confused about why Jake hasn’t dropped everything to make fun of her. Ordinarily, he would already be imitating her expression, one hand on his hip, and telling her she looks like his middle school librarian.

Instead, though, Jake is staring over Amy’s shoulder. She turns to follow his gaze and sees that it’s resting on one Gina Linetti, whose jaw is dropped in shock. A second later, Jake is pushing Rosa and Amy to the side as he sprints between them to tackle-hug Gina. She manages to stay on her feet, just barely, smiling wider than Amy knew she could.

“Pineapples! What are _you_ doing here?”

“I basically _live_ here - why are _you_ here?”

“Rosa’s that girl I was telling you about!” Gina looks at Rosa, shocked. “You mean your Jake is _this_ Jake?”

Amy is still thinking about the nickname _Pineapples_ and the plethora of possibilities for teasing it provides (she’s already itching for her pens to change his name on the calendar).

Rosa, meanwhile, grunts. “Yeah, why?”

“Boo, we grew up together! I practically raised this boy!”

Amy laughs. “Did a pretty poor job of it.” She knows Gina just well enough to make the comment, but she’s already braced for Rosa’s girlfriend’s retort.

Sure enough, Gina turns on a dime to face Amy. “Whore, I was a _great_ parent. It’s this nerd who screwed it up in college!” She punches Jake in the arm, and over Gina’s shoulder, Amy sees Rosa roll her eyes, a pained expression on her face.

“Well, it’s way too early for any _sane_ human to be awake,” she interjects, with a pointed look at Jake, “so I’m going back to bed. Amy can deal with you” She cocks an eyebrow at Gina. “You coming?”

Gina pushes Jake away so fast he actually stumbles back, and by the time he regains his balance, Gina is inside Rosa’s bedroom. Rosa, walking back to bed a bit more slowly, turns around.

“I hope you know that this is the _worst_ thing that’s ever happened to me.”

She keeps walking, but Jake calls after her back, “My two best friends! Lovers together in beds! I’m so proud! Go get to boinking!”

Rosa’s only response is to slam her door.

Amy turns to Jake. “So, Pineapples, what on _earth_ was so important?”

He pauses, a little sheepish. “...I remembered that the sing-along version of _High School Musical 2_ was playing today while we’re at school and you actually pay for DVR like a _nerd_ so I came to record it. And I swear to God, if you ever call me Pineapples again, I’ll write on the calendar.”

“You wouldn’t,” Amy retorts, horrified for a moment before seeing the smile that Jake is trying and failing to wipe off his face. “Anyways, _Pineapples_ , you know where the remote is. I’m going back to sleep.”

* * *

Jake, of course, tells Charles about Gina as soon as they sit down for lunch that day, and Rosa gets to watch her privacy disappear down the drain forever as Jake entertains Charles and Amy with stories from Gina’s childhood (somehow, it makes perfect sense that Rosa is dating a girl who cut off Jenny Gildenhorn’s ponytail at recess after she dumped Jake).

Later that night, though, Jake’s smug smile is quickly wiped off his face, when Gina - over for dinner, for the first time - turns the tables on him. “One time, Pineapples here tried to sneak out of his mom’s apartment. He got stuck in the window because he tried to go out with one foot first and half a torso. He tried to call me to save his sorry ass, but his mom found him first. _And_ ,” Gina lowers her voice to a whisper, reminiscent of a child telling a ghost story, forcing everyone to lean closer to listen, “she pulled him back in by his _ponytail_!”

Charles, Amy, and Rosa gasp simultaneously. Jake tries to deny it, but Amy’s too busy laughing while Rosa high-fives Gina.

Charles, meanwhile, is beyond excited. “A ponytail? Jakey, you never told me! I’m sure it was long and luscious - definitely shinier than Amy’s! Should I grow one?” His excitement turns to indecision as he continues, “I mean, I could, and I would be just like fifteen year-old Jake - my _dream_ \- but it wouldn’t be as good as yours, but the _aesthetic!_ ”

“Charles, no!” his companions all say in unison. Amy would be impressed with their synchronicity, but she’s also pretty sure that literally any sane human being would react in exactly the same way to that thought.

“I _would_ like to see pictures, though.” Rosa adds.

“Don’t worry, boo, I’ll get them to you.” Rosa and Gina strictly avoid affection in public, but from Amy’s vantage point preparing plates at the kitchen counter, she catches Rosa nudge Gina’s knee with her own under the kitchen table. It takes every muscle in her body to resist calling them out on it, but she can’t quite bring herself to ruin the moment.

“Gina!” Jake whines. “If they’re going to see my ponytail they’re going to see yours, too!”

“You wouldn’t.” Gina’s voice has gone dark, and for a second, Amy can see exactly why Rosa’s dating this woman - their mannerisms when angered are eerily similar.

Jake, though, remains unafraid, and suddenly, his bravery in the face of one of Rosa’s moods makes a lot more sense. “Oh, I would. In fact, it’s still saved on my phone! Here!”

He pulls out his phone, thumb scrolling across his cracked screen as he explains. “Once, Gina wore a ponytail. At _soccer practice._ ”

Gina looks horrified. Rosa, meanwhile, is wearing an expression of open delight. When everyone sees the picture, Charles squeals, proclaiming a young Gina to be adorable, while Gina sulks in her chair.

Rosa elbows her girlfriend. “Aw, you looked kinda cute in a ponytail.”

Gina’s eyes light up with mischief. “And you looked kinda cute in pointe shoes, boo.”

The room erupts into chaos as Gina’s statement sinks in. Jake is shouting thanks to Gina as he tries to pull Rosa out of her chair, telling her to give in to the force of the _dance_ , and Charles is using the edge of the table as a makeshift barre, displaying his (admittedly perfect) pirouettes, and on a hunch, Amy finds Rosa’s exercise bag, where she discovers she’s right, and a pair of pointe shoes is wrapped in the side pocket. She holds them up with a triumphant shout

Jake pounces for the shoes, deciding he absolutely has to try them on. Amy’s doing her best to hold them above her head, but his few extra inches make this difficult. Before they know it, his arms are wrapped around her as he reaches for the shoes she’s holding out behind her back.

And then she’s falling backwards, and he goes down with her, his momentum in a last-ditch reach for the shoes carrying him forward onto the carpet on top of Amy. There’s a moment where they’re both laughing, more than a little breathless, and Amy notices the way Jake’s eyes sparkle as he reaches over her head for the shoes she’d almost forgotten she was holding. His proximity is making her a little dizzy, and all of a sudden the cold linoleum of their apartment feels like snow in a park during her favorite snowball fight of all time a year ago.

And then Charles has landed on top of Jake, and Gina on top of him, all dogpiling in an attempt to reach the shoes, fighting each other off and pulling each other’s arms back as Amy continues to hold them by the tips of her fingers, just barely out of reach.

And she’s shaken out of her thoughts about how soft Jake’s cheeks look, but that’s okay because Charles’ screeching laughter is filling up the room, and Jake’s using one arm to hold some of the weight off her so she can breathe at the bottom of the pile, and for now, that’s enough.

And then Rosa, all but forgotten, has stalked around the couch, avoiding the pile, and grabbed the shoes out of Amy’s hand.

“You idiots wouldn’t be able to use these if your life depended on it.”

Amy’s eyes hold a challenge as she looks up at her roommate who maybe became her best friend somewhere along the way. “And you could?”

In answer, Rosa bends down and removes her socks. She pulls padding out of her bag and slowly, meticulously, she ties on the shoes. Gina, Charles, Amy, and Jake are so busy untangling themselves that they’ve almost forgotten that she’s there until she’s standing in front of them on her pointes, hands on hips in open defiance.

“This really just means I have the sheer strength and coordination to strangle any of you losers with my feet. You know that, right?”

Jaws drop, and Charles gasps. Then, Gina says, entirely in awe, “Hot.”

And the room erupts.

And ten minutes later, as they devour cold pizza and watch Rosa do some basic turns in the living room, Amy remembers that the calendar says she should be reviewing tomorrow’s lectures right now. Somehow, she decides she’d rather be doing this.

* * *

For Rosa, spring passes in a blur. Starting in February, every waking moment is taken up by the beast of a test waiting at the end of the school year - for Amy, at least. Rosa herself has plenty of fun with Gina, Jake, and Charles - and Amy, when she can be convinced to leave the notes constantly spread out over their kitchen table. It’s snowy and grey, making the idea of going outside inherently unappealing for everyone except Jake, who regularly tracks snow into their apartment because he felt some inexplicable need to dive headfirst into a drift on his way over. Everyone (except Jake, somehow) comes down with an awful cold, leading Gina to visit only with surgical masks, dramatically declaring that she refuses to be infected with the plague (it’s cute, not that Rosa would never admit it).

February is also when they’re introduced to the Santiago Stress Scale. The Santiago Drunkenness Scale is a known quantity, even if the details are still being worked out, but this is the first time they’ve encountered an Amy who is stressed enough that consistent patterns of stressed behavior emerge.

When it starts, they don’t think it’s a pattern. The stress-braiding is a familiar activity, although it rarely emerges with this level of consistency. However, the fact that they’ve seen it before doesn’t mitigate the shock when Amy emerges from her bedroom on Saturday, February 23, with no less than twenty-seven braids in her hair. Gina pulls out a large wooden cross from God-knows-where, shouting about demons, and as Rosa surveys the room, sleep still clouding her brain, she decides it would be better just...not to ask.

Jake shrieks a little bit when he comes over that afternoon to study and drink their beer. Amy just sticks her tongue out at him, adding another braid at the nape of her neck as she watches a video explaining kidney function.

March brings constant rain - it washes away the snow, much to Rosa’s relief, but the bad weather is making her stir-crazy. She’s spending as much time as she can at yoga, trying to forget about her responsibilities, but the amount of time she has to devote to things like axe throwing is less and less - on the calendar, what Amy has dubbed “unstructured Rosa time” has shrunk to a mere hour a day (Rosa resists commenting on the fact that _Grey’s Anatomy_ is still on the calendar three nights a week, and she follows her schedule - mostly).

March also brings what Charles decides must be Level Two of the Santiago Stress Scale: singing songs from _The Great American Songbook_. The braids haven’t gone away, but they’re now accompanied by a nervous, quiet humming of classic American songs, most of which Rosa had forgotten about. It’s like something out of a horror movie, which means that Jake refuses to enter their apartment for a whole thirty-six hours, claiming that seeing it will give him nightmares (he relents eventually when he discovers that he’d have to actually clean the dishes in his sink if he wants to continue eating). Rosa thinks it’s awesome. She does wonder if the singing is intentionally restricted to old-fashioned standards, or if it’s possible that those are just the only songs her mildly psychotic roommate knows.

April brings sun - _finally_ , but even Rosa and Jake are getting too worried to enjoy it. Gina has started to complain that no one is any fun anymore - after all, what’s the point of having friends if all they’re going to do is stare at textbooks, even when you look fly as _hell_? (This tirade comes after Gina failed to recruit Jake for an afternoon photoshoot in the park - a job that has apparently belonged to Jake since his seventh birthday, when he was gifted with a wrapped piece of paper saying he had the privilege of capturing the image of Gina Linetti now and forever. Rosa looks up, tired, and snaps a picture on her phone.)

April also brings a whole new level of the Santiago Stress Scale, much to Rosa’s dismay. Up to now, this had been entertaining, but Level Three costs them $100 when Amy, in a fit of rage over how loudly Charles was slurping his soup (actually reasonably quietly, all things considered), decides to smash the microwave with the axe hidden under the kitchen sink.

Her three braids flying, she spends five minutes hacking it to shreds, shouting about under-warmed leftovers and salmonella risks and _loud slurping_ and dumb tests. Jake, Charles, and Gina back slowly out the door. Rosa, meanwhile, watches the scene unfold, amusement plastered across her face. When Amy finally calms down and retreats for a nap, she cleans up and takes all of her sharp weapons to Gina’s apartment, deciding that she’d rather not get axed in her sleep, no matter how funny that might be.

Rosa welcomes May by taking a road trip to the beach. She’d never admit it, but the waves are calming, and all she wants to do is sleep in the sun for three days. Amy protests at first, but Jake goes home to his mom for the weekend, and Charles’ dad flies in to “take care of his little boy,” so she decides to tag along. Rosa’s glad she did - they sleep in the sun, and she limits Amy to three hours of homework per day, and when they get back, her hair stays in a ponytail - not a braid in sight - for a whole week.

Then, things devolve quickly. They have three weeks left until the test, and the relaxed mood left over from their weekend off didn’t last nearly long enough. In one night, they witness Santiago Stress Levels One, Two, and Three (she smashes a takeout box by stomping on it for ten minutes solid, long after it’s flattened and plastered to the floor), all by 9:30 PM. Rosa has a bad feeling that something else is coming, but she has no idea what that might be. Part of her is tempted to reach for her sword - just in case.

And then, at 1:47 in the morning, when everyone is at least a quarter asleep but still pushing through notes, Amy starts to scream.

At first, Rosa’s head shoots up, convinced that there must be a murderer in the apartment (she really should have gone for her sword). But then she realizes that it’s just Amy, staring blankly at her notes with her mouth wide open, a shriek shattering the silence they’d all been enjoying (even _Jake_ had stopped reading his notes out loud, _finally_ ).

It’s a whole new level of spooky, and if Rosa had any energy left in her body, she’d get up, march over to her roommate, and smother her with a pillow. But instead, she decides that moving isn’t worth the effort and goes back to reading. Jake and Charles quickly lose interest, as well, Jake covering his ears while Charles mutters something vague about the benefits of catharsis.

Finally, Amy stops and apologizes, saying she “just had some stuff to get out there.” Her explanation is hoarse, tired, and barely a coherent sentence, but somehow, it makes perfect sense. (When Amy does it again at dawn two weeks later, Gina is the one to get up and physically shut her jaw, informing her with sympathy that “Vanessas are better than this”.)

Rosa’s sure she’s seen the worst of it as May wears into June, leaving only a week until their test date. After all, they’ve trained Amy to scream into a pillow, Rosa’s been letting Amy braid her hair so that Amy doesn’t go bald, and thanks to Amy’s ridiculous calendar (which is now so jam-packed it looks more like a rainbow than a coherent schedule), Rosa feels like she could recite every lecture from the past two years with ease.

And yet, three days before the test, Amy’s stress level peaks. She’d been pacing all night as she in turn sang, recited, and shouted (all while staring at her notes on common congenital abnormalities in the digestive tract). And then, without warning, as she reaches page 36 in her notes, she comes to a complete stop in the middle of the living room. Everyone looks up, waiting for what comes next - at this point, more out of sheer curiosity than anything else.

And then Amy starts to spin, picking up her notes and reading them as though she’s sitting totally still while her hair fans out behind her and her feet wear circles into their carpet.

Jake’s the one who reacts first. He looks concerned for a few seconds, watching her with a furrowed brow and a half-open mouth, poised to say something to draw her out of whatever weird stress-trance is causing her to twirl like a clumsy, sweats-clad ballerina.

Instead, though, he drops his notes and falls out of his chair, laughing a little deliriously. Charles and Rosa quickly follow, unable to hold it together, and soon all three are roaring so loudly that Amy actually looks up from her notes.

“What’s so funny, guys?”

“You’re...spinning...straight out of a horror movie...un _real_ \--” Jake manages to explain in gasps between bursts of laughter.

She tries to take a step towards him, to punch him in the shoulder, but she stumbles and falls, clearly too dizzy to walk straight anymore. This drives them into renewed peals of laughter that last for another ten minutes. They’re far too tired at this point to maintain any shred of reason. Even Amy joins, admitting a little breathlessly that stress _might_ make her a bit insane.

When they finally calm down, Amy undoes her hair, and they go to bed. Something tells them that if they’ve hit Level Five of the Santiago Stress Scale, it’s really just time to sleep.

Rosa discovers three days later, during hour four of the seven hour test, that they were right to sleep for the last few days. She can _hear_ Amy’s voice, accompanied by Jake and Charles and every single one of her professors, reciting answers in her head as she reads the questions. She walks out of the testing room more sure of that test than anything she’s ever taken before, so she takes a moment to grudgingly thank the calendar (which she now hates so much that she’s planned an elaborate burning ritual for as soon as Amy flies home that weekend).

Amy is waiting for them outside the testing room. “You passed?” she asks, sounding a little anxious.

“We don’t get our scores back for another three weeks, at least, Amy. We have no idea,” Jake points out reasonably.

“But you passed?”

“Hell yeah we passed!” Charles shouts, so loudly some nearby pigeons scatter.

And then they’re all hugging - even Rosa, who will deny vehemently later that she participated in celebration of any form - and laughing and Charles is _definitely_ crying and Jake picks up Amy and spins her around, her ponytail - mercifully free of braids - flying out behind her as she wraps her arms around his neck.

“Well, it’s way less creepy when you do it like that,” Rosa decides with a smile, preparing herself for the punch that Amy delivers to her shoulder as soon as Jake puts her down.

“Come on, nerds, we’re getting a drink,” Amy tells them in the same bossy tone she used last week to get them to turn off the TV and study. And she stalks off, knowing they’ll follow.

* * *

Amy’s lost count of her drinks, but she’s having more fun tonight than she’s had in a _long_ time. Shaw’s is nearly empty at 5 PM on a Tuesday night, so they’re free to be as loud as they want. Gina teaches them to play darts, and then Rosa shows off her pool skills, creaming them all and winning an unwise sum of money off of an overconfident Jake. Charles gets invited by the bartenders to help them mix drinks ( _invited_ might be a strong word - three drinks in, he hops over the counter, clumsily falls into the narrow space between the counter and the shelves of alcohol, taking three bottles of vodka down with him, and no one forces him back out).

And then “Kokomo” comes on over the speakers, so faint that Jake and Amy, arm wrestling in a round-robin tournament with Rosa, don’t even notice. Charles doesn’t let that last, though. He vaults back over the bar, screeching at the DJ to turn it up, and drags his friends out to a makeshift dance floor. It’s truly fortunate that the bar is still relatively empty because Charles has them holding hands in a circle, performing elaborate routines, while Gina dances next to them, performing a choreographed routine that takes up a full half of the open space. Everyone is laughing and even Rosa is consenting to basic physical contact and happiness is welling up in Amy’s chest, filling all the holes that the stress of the past few months had eaten away.

And then the song changes. Amy’s still trying to pick out the intro over the din of the bar, which is slowly filling up as people get off work, when Rosa and Gina groan and turn to leave.

“Taylor Swift? I can’t do this basic ish. It’ll probably reduce my hair shine by at least 22%,” is Gina’s declaration as she drags Rosa back to the dart board for a rematch.

“They changed the song? ‘Kokomo’ should play at _least_ three times in a row, for full effect!” Charles decides indignantly. “I’m going to go deal with this.”

And then, Amy finds herself alone on the dance floor with Jake, as the first verse of “Ours” wafts out of the speakers at her back.

“I’m gonna--” she starts, motioning in the general direction of the dartboard as she turns to walk off.

“Oh no you don’t!” Jake replies, grabbing her outstretched hand. “This is Taylor Swift, and we _always_ dance to Taylor Swift!”

“I don’t dance, Jake.”

“Ah, but I do!” he retorts, with a dramatic bow that he ends in a flourish, inviting him to join him on the dance floor. Amy can’t decide if it’s the alcohol coursing through her blood, rapidly affecting her memory and executive function, or the general tingling warmth filling her limbs at the sight of his smile that makes her grab his hand, but she doesn’t take time to think about it.

He grabs her waist carefully and guides her out to an open space on the dance floor, where he twirls and dips her wildly, trying to teach her to swing dance, despite his own general incompetence. She only steps on his feet four times, and he only runs her into other couples twice, so really, it counts as a success - it’s definitely a memory she’d like to hold onto more than she wants to remember lists of common human diseases.

And then, at the bridge, he stands her straight up and starts to sway, catching his breath. His cheeks are red and his hair’s a little messy and his eyes are heavy-lidded from some combination of stress and alcohol and exhaustion, and it’s all a very endearing combination.

“Hey,” she starts, and he looks down at her. “Thanks for putting up with me this spring. I know things sometimes got...out of control.”

He chuckles gently. “Nah, you’re pretty cute when you’re being clinically insane - I was happy to watch.”

Her breath catches for just a second, and she can feel her face flush. He said she was _pretty cute_. All of a sudden, she’s acutely aware of his hand on her waist and hers on his shoulder, and some insane impulse is telling her to reach up and touch his face. His breathing has quickened, just a little, and she’s not sure what to make of that.

And then the song switches, the opening notes of “Galway Girl” blaring through the speakers (apparently Charles has not yet been successful in his quest for repeat “Kokomo”).

They stand for a second like startled rabbits, unsure of what comes next. Jake’s mouth is hanging open, just a little, and Amy’s eyes have gone wide. And then, Jake disengages, shouting, “Come on, Amy! Time to jig!”

And then he’s standing in front of her, kicking his feet wildly in all directions, and laughter breaks through her shock, and the tingling in her chest dissipates as she watches him kick two other dancers and then fall, his own feet tangling beneath him.

She reaches down to help him up and hopefully drag him off the dance floor, wondering what on earth next year could bring to top this moment.


End file.
